Little Black Book

Stephanie searched her father’s eyes. The walls around her were dressed in an alarming red wallpaper with faded, gold parallel lines running across the length of its body. The occasional rift in the material exposed bits of the white wall underneath, revealing the restaurant’s old age. Without much precision, or reason, the shiny, brown furniture was scattered around the main room. Stephanie’s family sat around the circular table in what felt like the middle of the room.

“I just haven’t found anything that makes me feel the way writing does, and I think I could be good.” Stephanie announced to the table.

Silence draped over the table the way mist hovers above the grass in the early hours of the morning. The quiet drowned out the echoing chatter from the tables around them. When her eyes eventually landed on her oldest brother, Henry, he looked down at his plate, pretending to take an interest on the few unidentifiable specks of food that remained.

“I... I think it’s nice you found a hobby you enjoy Steph…but you can’t make any money through writing.” Henry moved his eyes to the water glass now. “And, besides, there are only a few writing geniuses in the world. The rest are all talentless dreamers.”

“Yeah, but the geniuses have to start somewhere. Elizabeth Bowen didn’t just wake up a novelist.” Stephanie worried her response sounded more like question.

The silence reemerged, suffocating the air out of the room. Before it had a chance to settle entirely, her mom jumped in, “why don’t we talk about this another time? Let’s just enjoy our meal for now.”

Stephanie sighed and nodded in a silent agreement. She couldn’t be sure if the motion of her head was imagined or if some obedient force pulled the weight of her head up and then back down. Her family returned to their discussion about which season they preferred, dancing around any subject that could stir up discomfort. Stephanie’s eyes now focused on her own plate. The conversation happening around her faded into a hum and all she was able to be aware of was her own thoughts. Her mind’s chatter converted into an energy of heat that grew out of her lower stomach and made its way up to her face, turning her olive cheeks into a disarming red. She should have just kept her dreams to herself she thought. The rest of the dinner passed in a blur.

____________________________________________________

Stephanie sat facing the front window in her bedroom. The sun shined through the glass, warming her forehead. At the desk she was seated at lay her little black notebook. She closed her eyes for a moment to marinate in the sun’s warmth. After some time, she opened her eyes. She looked out onto her family’s ordinary street. Her eyes scanned the sidewalk for a prompt, something to practice writing descriptions on. She thought about describing the old tree that had lived at the corner of their front yard. She began to think about all the people and stories that tree would have encountered. Her cell phone vibrated, jolting her back into the present. She took a sip of the water from the old glass that was placed beside her. After wetting her mouth, she picked up her favorite black pen, and began to write.

This was her favorite moment; writing in the sun, allowing her thoughts to create magic on the page. It was the unknown of writing that excited her; she was never able to predict how the story would turn out. Writing was not different to life in this sense. She would create characters that would develop to have a life of their own and their stories would always take tragic twists and beautiful turns. In her stories, her characters were always free to follow their dreams.

“Dad, I was looking online, and I saw that there are creative writing programs for people who want to be professional writers.” Stephanie addressed her father.

Her father continued to move about the kitchen, searching the cabinets for a plastic container to hold the sandwich he was taking to work. He began to move methodically from cabinet to cabinet, opening each door, peering inside, before shutting it in silent defeat.

“I will get it for you” she said.

Stephanie walked towards the fridge and slouched down to open the bottom cabinet, revealing all the shiny containers.

“Thanks.” He murmured.

He bent down, examining the compartment for the perfect sized container.

“Look, I know you love to write, and I think it is really great that you do. But to waste money on a degree that is not going to help you get a job is pointless. If you had a large sum of money to spare, I’d say go for it, but that just isn’t the case. You are better off getting a law degree or something that is going to help you out in the future.”

Her dad didn’t turn to face her as he was talking, he continued preparing his lunch before packing it all into his lunch carrier. Scanning the kitchen quickly to make sure he didn’t miss a key item, he turned to face Stephanie.

“One day in the future, when you have made some money, you can look into getting a writing degree. Right now, focus on a good job to make that happen.”

She tried to stare into his eyes, but before she was able to hold them in her gaze, he turned and walked out the door.

Stephanie remained still. She could hear him walk into the garage and after a few minutes heard the trace of his car fade into the background. She began to pace around the island in the center of the room.

Deep in her thoughts, her eyes made contact with the clock on the wall, and she screeched. She had 10 minutes to get to school. She decided to readdress their conversation later this evening.

It was 12am and Stephanie felt hopeless. Stretched out on her bed like a starfish; she looked lifeless. Since the time dinner had finished, she had been locked away in her room, researching creative writing programs on her laptop. It was an emotional cycle. She would end up on a shiny, important looking university site, before seeing the long number next to the section that read “cost”. Her heart would sink to the bottom of her stomach. She sat aimlessly on her bed for a few more moments before a sudden burst of energy pushed her back towards the laptop screen. Typing “writing programs” into google one more time, an add popped up: “Vocal’s Little Black Book Contest”, she said out loud to herself. Perking up a bit, she moved her face closer to the screen as if her proximity would help her digest the information better. Clicking on the advertisement, her eyes moved fast across the text, catching the number 20,000. “20,000” she breathlessly whispered. If she was able to get a scholarship, the 20,000 would cover the rest of the creative writing fees. She sat up entirely and looked around her room. She wondered if this was like one of those moments in the movies where the main character’s life changes forever. Just in case it was, she looked around the room once more and tried to notice how she felt. She might have to write about this one day, she thought.

“Go on, open the email” Stephanie’s mom anxiously exclaimed. They all stood around the kitchen counter: Stephanie, Henry, her mother, and her father. Her mom practically stood on top of her. Her mother’s head poked through the opening that was the space between Stephanie’s head and shoulder. Her father stood by the fridge a little distance away.

“Well…go on Steph” her mother encouraged.

“I really don’t think I would have won, there will have been so many other competitors, and I only just started writing anyways.”

“Honey, you did your best. And if nothing else, at least you got some good practice in.” Her mom rubbed her shoulder, pushing her arms towards the mouse. “Go on.”

Stephanie closed her eyes for a second, sucked in her breath, and muttered a quick prayer. She opened her eyes. The room came back into focus. When she clicked onto the email the mouse made the same innocuous noise it made every day.

Before she had a chance to think any further the words “winner” flashed across the screen. Her heart began to beat at twice the speed, and she grabbed the computer screen, pulling it closer to her face to check the accuracy.

“I won.”

“I…I think I won”, she sounded uncertain.

Her mother looked over her head, moving her own face as close to the screen as Stephanie’s head would allow, and clapped her hands together.

“I can’t believe it, you actually won.”

Her father seemed to fly across the room to where they were all standing, and her mother stepped aside so he could see the screen for himself. His face beamed and he grabbed Stephanie’s shoulders from behind.

“You really did it. You decided you wanted to go to creative writing school, and you went out and made it happen for yourself.”

Stephanie didn’t even turn around to look at them, she just kept rereading the lines over and over again. “Because of your creativity and heart-warming story, we are pleased to announce that you are the winner of the short story contest.”